


Cold Water Shock

by DictionaryWrites



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Biting, Cis Peter Lukas, Complicated Relationships, Consent, Crying, Dacryphilia, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Self-Esteem Issues, Size Kink, Trans Martin Blackwood, Under-negotiated Kink, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:31:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21727057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Peter Lukas is, in many ways, inevitable.Martin lets himself be led by the tide.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 21
Kudos: 238





	Cold Water Shock

**Author's Note:**

> Terms used for Martin's bits are clit & cunt.

The first time is with a hand on his shoulder, and a broad, strong hand squeezing the flesh there. Martin looks back, and Martin is a tall man, tall and broad and built as though he were made for a dozen sports he’d never had an interest in, but sitting at his desk, he’s keenly aware of just how big Peter Lukas is.

Taller than Martin by nearly half a head, and with shoulders like a cart horse. Thinner than Martin is (although not _thin_), and with more plainly defined muscles – yesterday, he’d thrown off his coat and cardigan to help move some new shelves into the library, throwing himself into the physical work with unabashed abandon, and Martin had seen the way his shoulders, his arms, his chest, had all rippled with it, thickly stacked with muscle.

And when Martin is sitting down?

Martin has to look _up_ at him, and feel the weight of Peter Lukas’ massive hand on his back, feel his thumb pressing into the meat of Martin’s shoulder, feel the pleasant pressure of the light squeeze.

“Good _job_, Martin,” Peter Lukas says. “You’re a real treasure.”

It makes a shiver run down Martin’s spine, and makes his libido give an uncomfortably quick lurch. It shouldn’t, it really shouldn’t – Peter Lukas’ hand is inhumanly _cold_, radiating through the fabric of Martin’s jumper and his shirt, and Peter Lukas is an avatar of the Lonely, a monster in his very own right. His eyes are the green-grey of seafoam in an Aivazovsky painting, and they look infinite, as if Martin could drown in them – not in a sweet, romantic sense, but in a more literal, Romantic one, as if they could freeze him down to his bones and immobilise him with the cold water shock, leave him sinking beneath the waves and choking on the brine.

“Thank you, Mr Lukas,” Martin whispers.

“_Please_, Martin. Call me Peter. I really am glad it’s _you_ I can count on,” Peter says, and that strong hand pats his cheek. Martin’s mouth is dry as Peter walks away.

That’s how it starts.

\--

The second time Peter actually stops him in the corridor with a hand on Martin’s chest, splaying over his breast with his too-wide, too strong fingers. There are scars on his fingers, and part of the pinky on this side – the left side – is missing, so that it ends at the second knuckle. The cold dives into Martin’s chest, coiling around his lungs, his heart, his trachea.

“_Martin_,” he says lowly, grinning with his grizzled mouth – ceramic-white teeth that are just a little too big, and that salt-and-pepper stubble he always has over his jaw and around his mouth, not quite long enough to be considered a beard. “You look so _handsome_ when you make the effort.”

Without meaning to, Martin glances down at himself, at the clothes he’s wearing – his best jeans, the ones that hug tight to his arse and his thighs that he managed to get in a charity shop in _exactly_ his size the year before last, that he’s really taken care of because it’s rare to get jeans that fit him so well; a white shirt that’s losing its colour, but that he always does his best to starch as much as he can, to keep it white and crisp; a pastel blue cardigan, another perfect charity shop find…

It’s a backhanded compliment, Martin knows that, he isn’t stupid. He knows that Peter wants to compliment him and isolate him at once, he knows that Peter wants to wrap him up in whatever business he has and tug Martin away from the rest of the Archive. He _knows_ that. 

But his skin still feels hot under Peter’s cold hands. He still feels hot all over.

“Thank you, Mr Lukas.”

“What did I tell you?” Peter asks, raising his eyebrows, which are darker than his hair, and with just enough subtle threat that Martin should be frightened, maybe. “Call me _Peter_.”

“Take your hand off my chest, Mr Lukas,” Martin says. His voice is very quiet.

Peter actually looks _surprised_, his chapped lips parting slightly, his eyebrows raising higher, but he obeys, draws his hand back, leans away, even. “Those jeans do _wonders_,” Peter adds, his voice lowering by a semitone or two. His eyes are stormy. Martin’s cheeks feel hot, and his stomach flips.

“Thanks,” he says, and keeps walking. He feels Peter’s eyes on his arse as he goes.

\--

The third time is lost to the ages, mixed in amongst all the times that come after. Peter is very free with his praise. He thanks Martin inordinately when Martin brings him coffee, or a sandwich when he notices Peter hasn’t eaten all day, which is often, once Martin starts looking out for it. He gets into the habit of bringing Peter something to eat when he gets his own lunch, making enough sandwiches for two of them.

“You’re so thoughtful, Martin,” Peter says one day, like it means nothing at all.

“You’re a miracle worker,” Peter says when Martin fixes a basic glitch on Peter’s computer, which he’s fairly certain Peter doesn’t use anyway.

“Such an eye for detail,” Peter praises him when Martin corrects a mistake Peter’s made on a form. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

Martin is so _intelligent._ So witty. So pleasant to spend time with. Such good company. So welcoming. Such a delight to work with. So knowledgeable. So helpful. So attentive. Peter couldn’t ask for a better assistant, a friendlier face at work, a better partner in running the Archive.

It shouldn’t affect him as much as it does. Every compliment obviously means nothing to Peter, so easily as it slips out of his mouth, and as much as Martin knows it’s designed to manipulate him, it’s never blatantly made up things, or random stuff under the sun. He praises the things Martin _does_, or pinpoints the things Martin works hardest to do.

It’s—

Martin knows he’s starved of praise.

His mother had been more free with it, when he’d been a child. She’d used to tell him exactly how brilliant she thought he was, but that was before she started getting more ill, before he started growing up, and she had resented that, he supposes, she had…

And he likes it, when people say nice things. People don’t, usually. They get impatient with him, or annoyed, find him inconvenient. Even when he tries his hardest, people think he’s trying _too_ hard, they think he’s too earnest.

“You are a _wonder_, Martin,” Peter says, and it must be the hundredth time he’s complimented Martin apropos of nothing, but it still makes a hot flush run down his body. This time, though, it’s accompanied by a hand on his hip, landing over the worn denim of his jeans.

(He’s been wearing them more often, since Peter mentioned them. Much more often.)

“May I?” Peter asks.

Martin should shake his head, and say no, and slap Peter’s hand away. Peter’s hand is cold, as it slides downward, cupping Martin’s arse through the jeans, and then the other one comes up, too, so that Peter has both his hands on Martin’s arse, and is looking up at him where he stands beside Peter’s desk.

Martin is breathing a little bit more heavily. Peter smiles slightly. It’s a dangerous smile. Martin hates that he’s turned on.

“You don’t mind?” Peter asks. Martin doesn’t say anything, staying frozen in his place, even as Peter squeezes, massaging the flesh of his arse, pressing down with his fingers and rubbing in slow, easy circles, his thumbs digging into Martin’s thighs. Through the denim, he can’t feel as much as he almost wishes he did, and for a moment he lets himself imagine what Peter’s calloused hands would feel like on his bare skin. “It’s so difficult to get any work done when you’re here, Martin. You’re ever so distracting.”

“Maybe I should go, then,” Martin says in a low voice, slightly cracked.

“But, Martin,” Peter says softly, leaning forward, so that his mouth ghosts over the crotch of Martin’s jeans, “I’ll be ever so _lonely_ if you go.” He laughs at his own joke, low and grizzled and dark, but before Martin can retort, Peter buries his face against his crotch, _nuzzles_ there, and Martin heaves in a choking gasp, grabbing at Peter’s short-cropped, grey-white hair to stop himself from falling as his knees go _weak_. God, what is he, fifteen?

But he can feel Peter’s nose run against him, pressing the denim against his cunt, feel Peter’s mouth, almost feel his hot breath through the denim. Martin almost wishes he wasn’t wearing underwear.

“Do you mind when I compliment you, Martin?” Peter asks, his voice dark and low.

“No,” Martin says, almost whimpers it. “I don’t mind.”

“Then let me tell you that you smell _delectable_.” Martin shudders, and Peter laughs, squeezes his thighs. “You blush so prettily when I say nice things about you, you know, Martin. It’s all I can do not to compliment you every hour of the day.”

“You want me to rely on you,” Martin says, and Peter chuckles, mouths at him through the denim, and although he barely feels it, it’s enough to make Martin gasp.

“It’s only fair,” Peter says. “I rely on you for _everything_. Is it such a crime to want you to _need_ me like I need you? Bend over the desk, Martin. Let me show you how grateful I am for you.”

Martin shakes his head, and Peter _pouts_, but he lets Martin go, and the sound of loss Martin makes…

He doesn’t mean to let it out of his throat. He hates himself as he moves to the office door, makes sure it’s closed, and then turns the lock. The click makes him flinch, and then he moves back to Peter’s desk.

Peter is already standing to his feet, letting Martin pass, and he catches hold of Martin by the waist, reaches for his jeans-front, unbuttons them. When he pulls down the zipper, Martin can’t help his breathless sigh, and Peter digs his thumbs into jeans and his boxers at once, sliding them down to Martin’s knees.

“Anything I shouldn’t do?”

“Any of this,” Martin says.

Peter laughs, and the sound makes him _throb_. “Anything specific?” Peter purrs, and Martin hesitates, but then he shakes his head.

“I’ll let you know,” he says.

“Feels naughty, doesn’t it?” Peter asks, with no small amount of delight. The colour in his eyes shifts like rolling tides. “Like you’re doing something you shouldn’t?”

“Letting a monster bend me over his desk? _Yeah_, Peter. A little bit.”

The bastard actually _beams_, genuine joy seeming to shine out of his face. “You called me Peter!” he says brightly.

Martin’s laugh is short, stunted. It should shock him that it tumbles out of his mouth at all. “Yes,” he says, and Peter’s cold hands squeeze his arse as he pulls Martin close.

“You are _remarkable_,” Peter murmurs, and when Martin moves to bend over the desk, Peter stops him, his hand splaying on Martin’s chest again. Martin watches, dry-mouthed, as Peter moves the laptop from the centre of his desk, sets the pens and paper he’d had aside, and then _takes off his cardigan_, spreads it over the leather-padded surface of the desk.

Martin stares at him.

“I don’t have a cushion,” Peter says, by way of explanation, and standing there, his jeans ruched around his knees, so wet he’s almost dripping, his head spinning, Martin grabs Peter by the collar of his shirt and pulls him into a kiss. He’s never been so desperate to kiss someone in his life, and Peter kisses like he’s never been kissed before – his stubble scratches Martin’s cheeks as Martin leans right into him, their mouths making quiet smacking noises, and Peter’s tongue is clumsy but good, it’s _good_—

“I don’t usually kiss people,” Peter says when Martin pulls away.

“Non-negotiable,” Martin says, as firmly, as demandingly, as he dares, as he kicks off his jeans, leaves his legs free. He’s still wearing his trainers.

“Alright,” Peter allows, and kisses him again. He’s better, this time, his mouth cleverer, and then he gently pushes Martin down, over the desk, and he pushes Martin’s thighs apart. “So _wet!”_ he says, full of delight, and his fingers play through the slick gathering around his hole, almost _dropping_, and Martin breathes in the scent of sea salt and expensive cologne that clings to Peter’s cardigan, gripping at the edge of the desk. “You are just a delight, Martin, do you know that? I hope you take me seriously when I say how lucky I am to have you.”

“Mm,” Martin hums, spreading his legs a little wider apart, and Peter slides his fingers, wet with Martin, gently either side of his folds, touching the tender skin on each side, the wet, sensitive skin folded in where it’s safe. Martin whimpers, spreads his legs even wider, and Peter lets out a wordless sound, full of praise.

“So beautiful,” Peter says. “Can’t believe anyone else in this place can _resist_, when you’re built like you are – so big and strong, I could just sink into you.” His mouth trails over Martin’s lower back, his breath so hot where his hand is so cold, circling Martin’s clit and making him hiss. The praise feels like hot honey being poured right into him, seeping into every part of him, and yet tugging at his stomach.

“Shut up,” he says, grunts out the words.

“How could I?” Peter asks, and mouths up the line of Martin’s spine, coming up to the back of his neck, and Martin shivers at the feel of Peter’s weight moulded against his back, Peter’s fingers sliding over the shaft of his clit and making him gasp, electric thrills of pleasure shocking through him. “How could I when you’re sprawled out for me, Martin? I couldn’t believe it when I first laid eyes on you, so _quiet_, so polite, and I couldn’t help but think of you with your clothes off, your mouth around my fingers. How can anyone clap eyes on you and think of anything but worshiping you from head to toe?”

It’s too much. Martin’s cheeks are burning, and Peter’s breath is so _hot_ against Martin’s ear as he nips at the shell of it, and then he catches the lobe between his teeth, _sucking_, and the sensation is so new and so different and so foreign that Martin moans.

“So unappreciated,” Peter says, voice low and hot and sweet as cream, and he takes hold of Martin by his outer lips, squeezes his clit between them and rolls it between his fingers, and Martin actually jumps on the desk, crying out, his hips bucking. “But you _should_ be appreciated, Martin. So handsome, with such a clever wit, such a smart tongue, and no one notices, do they? No one notices how clever you are, how thoughtful you are, how loving and lovely and _beautiful_ you are—”

“Shut up,” Martin says again, and Peter laughs against the back of his neck, grazes his teeth over the skin, and Martin shudders as he slides two fingers into Martin’s cunt to the knuckles, and then curls them, finds that spongey spot and _presses_ on it. The throb of pleasure is duller than it had been on his clit, not as electric, but it’s _good_, and Peter begins to rock his fingers as he lays kisses on the back of Martin’s neck.

“But it’s true,” Peter says softly, and the _Loneliness_ in it seeps right into Martin’s bones, and for some reason it makes a shock of pure pleasure rush through him. “You’re so _special_, Martin, don’t you know that? Don’t you know how wonderful you are, what a treat you are—”

“You keep telling me,” Martin bites out, trying to rock himself back onto Peter’s fingers, wanting more, “so yes, fine, why don’t you be _quiet_ and put your mouth on my—"

“Why are you so afraid of what I might say?” Peter asks, and Martin hears the pout in his voice, the soft _disappointment_, the… _care_. It’s faux care, it’s acted, it’s made up, just a trick to manipulate him, but it doesn’t matter, somehow, it doesn’t matter. “I just want to speak to you like you deserve, Martin, and you work so _hard_, try so _hard_, I want to tell you exactly how wonderful I find you. I’ll spoil you, if you let me.”

“I know you want to _spoil_ me,” Martin says, with a completely different emphasis on the word, but his eyes feel hot, and he breathes in, a little shallowly, tries to fill his lungs, even as he presses his forehead against his arms. “But right now—”

“Right now, let me say how _gorgeous_ you are,” Peter says, and kisses the shell of his ear. “Let me tell you how I want to take you home with me, dress you in the clothes you _dream_ of – those pastel colours you like, clothes that fit you, soft fabrics, warm fabrics, wouldn’t you like that, sweetheart? Wouldn’t you like me to lay you down on a nice featherbed and treat you like the prince you are? You write poetry, don’t you, Martin?”

Martin is breathing more heavily now, and he can feel his orgasm building, feel it coiling and building in the very base of his belly as Peter keeps rocking his fingers, his other hand flicking over Martin’s clit again, and he can feel Peter, too, feel Peter’s rock-hard prick against Martin’s thigh through his trousers.

“Yeah,” Martin bites out.

“_You’re_ poetry,” Peter says, and Martin whimpers as he adds a third finger, presses on the muscle as he thrusts his fingers, and Martin just wants to be fucked, wants to feel Peter on top of him, grind into him, pin him down and— “The picture you make right now… That blush on your cheeks, how warm and wet you are for me, welcoming me in, so obedient, so pliant, so yielding. I want to give you everything you’ve ever _dreamed_ of, Martin, everything you deserve. You’re so lovely.”

The hot feeling in his eyes won’t go away, the threat of tears, but Martin manages to blink them back, until Peter says, “You love so well, Martin, and so easily. Why don’t you let me love you back?”

Martin sobs, and the tears are hot on his cheeks as Peter moves _fast_, flips him onto his back and takes Martin’s clit into his mouth, sucks hard as he thrusts his fingers back in at the new angle. Martin can’t hide his face well, not on his back, not in the suddenly unbalanced position he finds himself in, one heel digging against Peter’s back, the other leg thrown loosely over his shoulder; one hand gripping at his hair, tight enough to threaten to pull it out, and the other forearm pressed over his face to hide the tears, but he can’t muffle the noise of his moaning, desperate sobs.

He comes harder than he’s ever come in his life, rocking his hips up into Peter’s mouth as he tries to stop sobbing, but the orgasm rocks him through, makes his knees feel like jelly and his thighs _quiver_, and when Peter pulls back from his cunt, grinning, he’s gentle about pulling Martin’s arm away from his face. 

“So handsome when you cry,” he says lowly, and Martin stares up at him with what he hopes is defiance in his wet, tear-reddened eyes.

“Don’t know why you thought the dirty talk about buying me things would get me off, actually,” he says, but it doesn’t sound as arch or rebellious as he wants it to, when his voice cracks in the middle from crying, when there are still tears sliding down his cheeks. Peter is still grinning as he leans in closer, slides his too-cold fingers up under Martin’s shirt, over the skin of his sides. “What makes you think I want a monster for a sugar daddy?”

Peter smiles in a show of innocence, his sea-spray eyes widening, his head tilting slightly to the side. “What’s a sugar daddy?” he asks, as if butter wouldn’t melt, as if he doesn’t _know_, and Martin’s laugh is infuriated – what is it about Peter’s act that leaves Martin feeling so unbalanced? How does Peter do it so _easily_, catch him from all these unexpected angles?

“It doesn’t bother you when I call you a monster?” Martin asks, raising his eyebrows, and Peter laughs, slides his fingers through the wet mess of Martin’s cunt, makes him whimper.

“No more than it bothers you when I call you handsome. We should call things what they are,” Peter says, with confidence, with ease, and Martin shivers at the teasing touch to his lips, playing over the folds there. “Let me take you to lunch.”

“I want— Have you got condoms?”

Peter smiles. Nods.

“Before lunch?” Peter asks.

“I want to ride you,” Martin says, a little hurriedly. “In your chair.”

“I _like_ you, Martin,” Peter says, and Martin’s cheeks burn, his eyes threatening to well over again, and to stop himself from crying he kisses Peter so savagely it might as well be all teeth, and when he bites Peter’s lip hard enough to bleed, he can taste the sea water, freezing cold, that dribbles down their chins.

“I hear that for cold water shock,” he says breathlessly, shoving Peter down into his chair and grabbing clumsily for the condom as Peter unbuttons his trousers, “you’re meant to be still for thirty seconds. Go still, let yourself accustom to the inevitable. Otherwise, you’ll definitely drown.”

“I wouldn’t let you drown,” Peter says, and Martin laughs – not at Peter, but at himself for almost believing it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Feel free to hit up [my ask on Tumblr.](http://patricianandclerk.tumblr.com/ask) Requests open.
> 
> I have a Magnus Archives discord! [Join here!](https://discord.gg/c9aZWDz)


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